


If the stars go on

by Sharking



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Angst, F/F, Falling In Love, Fluff, Lesbians, One Shot, Poetry, Touch-Starved, renison, they're in love, wlm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:01:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26101570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharking/pseuds/Sharking
Summary: I told myself her name was blasphemy but as it fell from your lips I knew it was scripture. No holy book could contain the path to righteousness when three syllables had already done the job. It fell from her pretty pink lips when we'd first met and it played in my head ever since.Allison.-Renee loves Allison
Relationships: Allison Reynolds/Renee Walker (All For The Game)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	If the stars go on

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy!

She walked like she was dancing. Even her strutting hit every beat. Hard and fast and powerful. You didn't have a choice but to follow her lead. When she smiled it felt like a strong hand on your back. Her eye contact pulled you close to her chest and her laughter sent you spinning. I never had a chance.

She took me to a museum and i mistook her for art. Out of the corner of my eye i thought i saw a masterpiece. Some tortured artists magnum opus. I thought i saw golden paint spilling onto a canvas like a dream. I turned and she was there.

She gave me a peculiar look, like she wasn't sure what i was thinking. I certainly would have filled my cheeks with heat if she were to know the truth. That i was falling in love.

There's a certain tragedy to falling in love with a statue. Sometimes her smooth tone skin was bleached white. Sometimes she was cold. Sometimes she was still. But other times i could imagine the paint on her skin, a rosy flush. I could sense her movement. She would move fluidly and gracefully like she was made of lace. But eventually the sun would rise and the moment would end. The sculptor would lock her in place once more, leaving me to ask myself if the night had happened at all.

And I prayed she did. Knees rubbing rough carpet in front of the alter. Hands clasped together in a pose I thought I'd seen her do out of the corner of my eye. As soon as you'd turn to check, she'd be back, frozen once more. I'd confessed all of this behind the safety of a screen enclosed in a box. It was warm there; the priest told me i was forgiven and to say five Hail Mary's. I said ten.

I told myself her name was blasphemy but as it fell from your lips I knew it was scripture. No holy book could contain the path to righteousness when three syllables had already done the job. It fell from her pretty pink lips when we'd first met and it played in my head ever since.

Allison.

And I can hear the hand she places on my cheek. It's the strum of a harp. Her gentle hands pluck at my ribs. These butterflies are an orchestra and the nerves become enchantment. The pittering of rain is a gentle percussion. This is a song that is felt rather than heard. And I feel every note.

It seems we exist only in the nighttime. The moonlight curves around her cheeks. Those are either stars or freckles on the bridge of her nose. Gravity pulls my hand towards her. She'd been staring out into the endless endless night and was caught by surprise. When my hand touched her skin it was a supernova.

Everything had been a fight before her. Eager fists thrown without care. Excusing the shiver of contact for pain. In a way it was. The need for human contact is so deeply ingrained in the core of each and every human. However, if one goes too long without the gentle hand of another, they begin to burn. Form the inside out. Providing warmth the only way they know how.

Every contact is dry brush and careless campers. The bumping of shoulders is boiling water. The holding of hands is incineration. Seeking heat with no sense of moderation, the body makes due. Takes what it can not knowing when the next contact will be. It burns.

Perhaps I shouldn't have been so caught up in her freckles or the way she disappeared into a canvas. If I'd been less careless perhaps I would have caught onto the fire burning from the inside out. Perhaps this touch wouldn't have hurt so badly.

But she is art and I'm just a sinner; lucky to be in her presence. 

So I withdraw my hand and watch as the shock in her eyes fade.

I stare at the stars and try not to let her pinky interlocked with mine set you ablaze. A silent prayer floats between us.

If the stars were to go on forever, maybe so could we..

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought!


End file.
